


Equilateral

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets, part ii. [44]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 14:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15293658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Really, there’s nothing Malia wouldn’t trust Braeden with, up to and including her own life.But at the end of the day, for all of her utter strength and determination and ingenuity, Braeden is only human. If she gets cut, she doesn’t heal, not cleanly and quickly. Her pain tolerance hasn’t been boosted into the stratosphere by magic. If too much of her blood puddles on the ground, she’ll die.It’s the last potentiality that Malia is currently worried about.





	Equilateral

**Author's Note:**

> a lovely nonny asked, _"I was wondering if you'd be able/willing to write malia tate/marin morrell/braeden?"_ and now we have this! 
> 
> I don't think the violence/blood/gore in this quite warrants a Graphic Depictions of Violence warning, but let me know if you think otherwise or if I've missed any other tags.

The thing is, there’s no doubt in Malia’s mind that Braeden is one of the strongest, most badass people she’s ever met, both physically and mentally. 

She’s more than capable of fending for herself against a whole bestiary of supernatural creatures, doesn’t blink in the face of wendigos or the latest werecreature to appear in Beacon Hills. When she’s up against the rogue hunters that still cross into town from time to time, she's usually able to outmaneuver and manipulate them without firing a single shot. When the pack needs help with research or Marin wants some assistance combing through old tomes for ways to strengthen the town’s defenses against the supernatural, Braeden wades right in with no complaints. 

Really, there’s nothing Malia wouldn’t trust Braeden with, up to and including her own life.

But at the end of the day, for all of her utter strength and determination and ingenuity, Braeden is only human. If she gets cut, she doesn’t heal, not cleanly and quickly. Her pain tolerance hasn’t been boosted into the stratosphere by magic. If too much of her blood puddles on the ground, she’ll die. 

It’s the last potentiality that Malia is currently worried about. 

All it takes is one stray bullet, one hunter who momentarily has luck on his side, one moment of Malia being too distracted to notice what is about to happen. By the time she turns around after knocking another hunter’s head against the concrete wall hard enough to knock him out, the shot is ringing out in her ears. Somehow, the sound as it strikes Braeden’s stomach, muted and liquid all at once, is even louder than the initial shot. 

For a few moments after that, all of Malia’s control, everything she’s carefully cultivated over the past years, simply goes out the window. She operates by instinct alone, and instinct tells her to destroy the creature that’s harmed one of her girlfriends, one of her _mates_. Unable to smell anything but Braeden’s blood, she dives onto the hunter, barely feels it as he plunges a blade into the meat of her thigh. 

When she comes back to herself, her hands are soaked with blood and gunpowder, and the hunter’s throat has been torn open, shredded so thoroughly that she can see his spinal cord peeking through the viscera. It’s a disgusting sight, and she knows that, at some point in the future, that disgust is probably going to transform into deep shame, _disappointment_ , with herself, but she doesn’t have time to go down that particular rabbit hole right now, not when the smell of Braeden’s blood is only intensifying. 

“Marin!” she howls at the top of her lungs as she lurches across the room on her hands and knees and drops into a crouch at Braeden’s side. She has no doubt that Marin felt the phantom impact of the bullet in her own stomach; all Malia can hope is that she’s not too busy fighting her own group of hunters to come to them. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Braeden rasps, and Malia almost laughs at the sheer idiocy of the statement. There’s blood soaking through where Braeden’s fingers are pressed against the wound on her lower abdomen and blood pooling in her mouth. When Malia takes her other hand tightly between both of her own, black lines of agony start climbing up her own veins, and she has to bite back another howl as the pain sets in. 

“Let me guess,” she says instead through gritted teeth, “you’ve had worse.” This time, it’s Braeden’s turn to laugh. A grimace creases her face immediately afterwards. 

“Something like that.” More blood bubbles from between her lips. “There was this time-”

“Shut up,” Malia interrupts. Taking Braeden’s pain away is important, but so is putting pressure on the wound, so she takes one of her hands, bats Braeden’s out of the way, and presses down _hard_ on the seeping bullet wound. 

Braeden hisses sharply, but she doesn’t talk, doesn’t even curse, and Malia has never been happier _not_ to hear her girlfriend’s voice. 

By the time Marin slams the door open so hard that it falls off its hinges, Malia can barely breathe - the air is too thick with the intertwined scents of pain and blood and fear. Her own panic is sitting in the back of her throat, threatening to choke her every time she swallows. The lines climbing up her arm have gotten even darker, almost the color of tar, and her face is slicked with sweat from the effort of trying not to scream. 

“What happened to the hunter?” Marin asks, crossing the room and dropping to her knees on Braeden’s other side. Her magic is so strong that Malia can see it, surrounding her in a faint, shimmering aura, and the smell of it, crackling lightning and dirt after a thunderous storm, actually overpowers all the other scents in the room. 

“Over there,” Malia answers, nodding her head towards the corner of the room, where the nearly decapitated hunter is sprawled on the floor. Marin’s gaze stays in that direction for a beat, possibly taking in the blood and gore splashed nearly to the ceiling, before she nods once. 

“Good.” She gestures for Malia to move her hand away from Braeden’s wound, and Malia reluctantly does so. Her hand is tacky with blood, and she wipes it off on her thigh, bare underneath the hem of her shorts, before she wraps it around Braeden’s forearm to take more pain. 

“Did you stop your group?” Braeden asks. Her voice is too quiet, barely louder than a whisper, and more panic starts scrabbling up Malia’s throat. Marin nods and briefly places her forefinger on Braeden’s lips. 

“Don’t talk. And hold still. This is going to hurt.” 

Braeden parts her lips again, probably to make another smart comment about how she’s gone through worse. Before she can speak, Marin snaps her fingers and says something in Latin. Sparks fly from her hand towards the wound. As soon as they touch it, Braeden starts to scream, the tendons in her neck drawn tight with pain. 

A second later, the pain travels through her and into Malia. It’s nothing less than torturous, the most overwhelming pain she's felt in her entire life. Her fangs and claws both pop out, and she howls as the pain continues to hit her like waves battering the shore. 

Eventually, she blacks out.

&. 

When she comes to, they’re in a hospital room.

She can tell before she opens her eyes - the scents of antiseptic and bodily fluids, the beeping of monitors and the squeak of wheelchairs and gurneys, are all ones she's well acquainted with. There are other scents in the room as well, familiar ones that make her flick open her eyes. 

She’s in a hospital bed, back against the railing, tucked against Braeden’s side. Braeden’s in a hospital gown, which she’ll probably rip off the first chance she gets, and there are IVs threaded into her arm and sensors attached to her chest. She’s still unconscious, and when Malia carefully wraps her fingers around Braeden’s forearm, lines of pain crawl up it once more. 

But these lines are faint, almost gray than black, and that’s promising. 

Marin is on the other side of the bed, perched on the very edge of the mattress, stroking a piece of Braeden’s hair back from her face. She doesn’t pause the motion even when she glances over at Malia, and Malia can’t help but wonder who the gesture is supposed to sooth more: Braeden, in her world of unconsciousness, or Marin. 

“How are you feeling?” Marin asks quietly. 

“Fine,” Malia answers honestly. She has a bit of a headache, but it’s nothing she can’t handle. “Is she going to be okay?” 

“She’ll have another scar for the collection, but she’ll survive.” Marin smiles slightly. “She’ll probably just say that it’s sexy.” Malia laughs and shuffles a little closer to Braeden, so that her back isn’t digging into the hard railing. 

“Probably.” After taking a moment to arrange her limbs comfortably, she reaches across Braeden’s torso and holds her hand out, palm up. Without hesitation, Marin takes it with her free hand, and once their fingers are intertwined, Malia lowers them until they’re resting above Braeden’s heart. The sound of it beating, a little quieter than usual but steady, is quite possibly the sweetest thing Malia has ever heard, and she sighs gratefully as she squeezes Marin’s hand, the hand that saved Braeden’s life, and shuts her eyes again. 

Braeden may be one of the strongest people she’s ever met, but Marin is, without a doubt, the strongest warlock, and Malia has never been more grateful for that particular fact than right now.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
